


Eight Count

by YaBoyYikes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boxing, Canon-Typical Violence, Detectives, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Fixation, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15174074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YaBoyYikes/pseuds/YaBoyYikes
Summary: After Connor commits suicide in front of the world, Hank doesn't think he can go on.  But he has to.  Connor, the plastic prick, asked him to keep going with his dying wish.Lucky for Hank, he gets sucked back into work dealing with an underground android boxing ring.  Even more lucky, Hank is surprised to see a familiar face.Of course, things are never that easy for Hank.





	1. 1...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is your official warning: this is a shippy fic, and Hank and Connor will do romantic and/or sexual things with each other in this fic! If you're not into it, don't read it!
> 
> Tags will be updated as the fic progresses, but I went ahead and put the tags in from the second chapter so y'all would know what you're getting into. Hope you enjoy!

On November 12th at approximately 12:02 AM, the android RK800 “Connor” model 313 248 317 - 51 stands on a stage in front of thousands of recently liberated androids.

At approximately 12:03 AM, Connor uses a pistol to commit suicide.

DPD Lieutenant Hank Anderson watches these events unfold a few blocks away using his mobile phone. There are no bars open, given the recent evacuation order for the entire city. Luckily, he has enough whiskey at home to drink himself into a blind stupor. He fumbles his way around his kitchen, desperately trying to remember which drawer has his revolver in it.

By some divine intervention, Hank slips on spilled dog kibble and falls, slamming into the ground. His bottle, abandoned by the edge of the kitchen table, wobbles but remains upright. Pity. Hank wouldn’t mind a drink, or a faceful of glass shards. Whichever came first.

Hazily, he can remember another time he was on this floor. Connor’s hand feeling so hard against his face, then gentle around his back a moment later. And, of course, the stinging sensation of being doused in cold water. He would do anything right now, anything at all, to hear a certain plastic asshole breaking through his window.

Hank is not a crier. Never has been. He just didn’t express himself that way. He was more inclined to yelling and hitting things.

Now, though, he chokes on his tongue and feels tears slips down his cheeks.

At some point, in between the sobs and hiccoughs, Hank passes out.

One of the great things about drinking until you black out is the dreamless sleep that inevitably follows. In the darkness, Hank sobers up.

 

When Hank wakes up, it’s to dog breath. Sumo, drool pooling in his jowls, has his head planted firmly on Hank’s chest, helpfully wafting his breath directly into Hank’s mouth with his panting.

“Get off me, you damn dog,” Hank grunts. Sumo responds by licking his face.

Hank has woken up to better things.

Groggily, he sits upright, pushing Sumo onto the floor. The dog lets out a _boof_ of annoyance before turning to the spilled food, tail wagging. Typical.

It takes Hank a moment to get his bearings: his eyes ache, his tongue is dry, his back feels like someone beat him with a metal bat, and his entire head seems to throb with pain. He’s got advil around somewhere, right? If not, he can always go out and get some, if the stores are open. What time is it, anyways? He grabs his phone from his pocket and jabs the home button. The screen flickers to life, and Hank is suddenly battered by the events of the past few days.

He’s got about a million text messages. Even a couple voicemails on his home phone. 

His news app is going haywire because every local article is breaking news:

**ANDROID REBELLION IN DETROIT: WHAT NOW?**

**ANDROID LEADER “MARKUS” REAPPEARS**

**CYBERLIFE RELEASES STATEMENT TO GENERAL PUBLIC**

And there, at the very end, is the article he dreads seeing but knows must exist:

**PROTOTYPE SELF DESTRUCTS PUBLICLY FOLLOWING ANDROID REBELLION**

His finger hovers over the article. He’s already seen it. Already knows what happens. What will happen if he sees it again?

He pulls the article up and lets out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding: there are no images or videos of the event. Hank supposes, at this point, with the line blurring on android rights it would be distasteful to post a video of an android committing suicide. Scrolling through, the information they give on Connor is minimal. For once, the press doesn’t seem to know much at all about what happened.

Hank manages to pull himself to his feet, groping at the counter blindly and hoisting himself up. Every joint creaks and groans in protest, but he needs a glass of water and to brush his teeth right _now_.

The glass of water helps immensely, so he pauses to check his texts. He’s got messages from Fowler, Chris, Ben, his ex wife, and even Reed. They’re all the same, all asking if he’s okay, if he’s at home, and what the Hell is going on. There is one exception, though. Gavin Reed texted him at 12:11 AM. Five words, one text.

_Why did he do it?_

Hank resists the urge to throw his phone, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Why _would_ Connor do that? He’d just found himself, just started doing things because he _wanted_ to do them. And now he’s gone. And it isn’t like Hank could go avenge him, because Connor had pulled the damn trigger himself.

_Damn it._

Hank focuses on the thought of brushing his teeth and stumbles to the bathroom. He knows if he lingers any longer, he’ll start looking for a trigger of his own. He takes his home phone with him, puts it on speaker, and plays through the first voicemail. It’s Fowler, sounding remarkably… sympathetic. It’s not a good look on him. Hank listens anyways.

It seems that just about everything has happened since he fell asleep. Detroit had dissolved into chaos just after midnight, soldiers and androids alike running rampant. The android leader, Markus, reappeared an hour or so after Connor’s… demonstration, to organize the androids once more, calling for cooperation between androids and human law enforcement in Detroit. There’s going to be some kind of summit today to discuss the details. Fowler didn’t even ask if Hank could be there. He knew better.

Hank plays the next voicemail. He doesn’t have this number, has never seen it before. For a moment, he doesn’t recognize the voice, either.

_”Lieutenant Hank Anderson? You don’t know me, but I’ve heard a little about you. From Connor.”_

With a start, Hank realizes it’s _Markus_ himself, the man, or android, of the hour. What does he want with Hank?

_”I’m Markus, and I met Connor before… we didn’t have much time to talk, but he told me about you and what you meant to one another. Given recent events I… I understand if you need time alone. But I would appreciate if you could reach out to me. This is a dark time for androids, and we could use every human friend we have. Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss.”_

His loss.

His fucking _loss_.

Hank plays the third voicemail.

_”Lieutenant Anderson— Hank, it’s, I don’t have much time—”_

Hank stops the voicemail. He’s trembling. Because it’s _his_ voice. He checks the timestamp, because if it’s after 12:03, then maybe, just maybe—

_12:02 AM_

Hank plays the voicemail over.

 _”Lieutenant Anderson— Hank, it’s, I don't have much time, it’s Amanda, Cyberlife, they—”_ Connor’s voice becomes staticy for a moment, buzzing over the line. _”They’re trying to control me again, and I can’t— I have to do this, I have to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Hank— you have to keep going, Hank. For me. I got this far because of you, Hank. For you. I— we need you. So keep going, for me.”_

_”I’m sorry, Hank. Goodbye.”_

Hank stares at his phone. He plays the voicemail again. And again. And again.

Eventually, Hank’s home phone has to be charged in its cradle again. He walks down the hallway to the kitchen, seemingly watching himself from afar. Without really thinking about it, he finds the revolver. He digs through his coat pocket and pulls out a quarter. He grabs the framed photo from the kitchen table. He trudges to the room at the end of the hall on the right, the one he never goes in. He finds the box under the little twin bed and blows away nearly three years of dust before opening it. There are a couple toys, a few photos in here. He adds his new mementos and tucks the box back under the bed. He closes the door behind him.

Hank pads to the kitchen once more, and pulls out his cellphone. He dials in Fowler’s number.

“Hey, Jeffrey,” Hank says. “Any chance I could get an invite to that meeting you mentioned?”

He has to keep going. For Connor.


	2. ...2...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not Connor, Hank knows that. His name tag reads “Miles.” He’s all smiles and he snorts when he laughs and his ears are pierced. He’s not like Connor at all.
> 
> He just looks exactly like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days!
> 
> I'll admit I didn't proofread this very thoroughly, so I'll probably be going through and correcting stuff later. In any case, I hope you enjoy!

The summit is… bearable, by Hank’s standards.

There’s only a few of them and they’re all unarmed. They’ve met in some abandoned warehouse, sitting around a small table. Markus and two other androids (one blond and one that has its skin projection turned off entirely) sit on one side of the table. Hank, Fowler, and Gavin Reed of all people sit on the other.

Reed keeps his mouth shut. Small mercies.

At this point, local law enforcement just wants to maintain peace, no matter what the feds want. The androids want the same. With that in mind, the two sides come to an agreement to stay the fuck away from each other.

Of course, they don’t say it that way. There’s talk of districts and communication lines to move human stragglers out of the city and keep any and all androids in. Markus is particularly emphatic on that last point: he’s scared humans will take the androids they “own” with them and keep them captive or, worse, destroy them.

Neither side is quite stable yet. There’s no precedent for this, no way to compare this to anything else. The concept of a new intelligent life form is abstract enough to deal with, but this whole process has taken place in less than a week: not a lot of time for damage control.

Markus asks what the DPD will be doing in the following days.

“Helping, where we can,” Fowler says.

“Helping humans?” Markus asks. Fowler blinks, considering.

“Helping people,” he says. Markus nods and seems satisfied.

“That’s all good,” Reed says, “but eventually, the feds are gonna step in. They always do. Usually when they’re least wanted.”

“Our interest is to foster peace in Detroit,” Makus says. “We… will cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Reed nods, and shuts up.

Hank sees the blond android put his hand over Markus’ thigh, fingers peeling away to reveal his white body. Markus’ eyes flit over to him briefly, but the two androids don’t say anything for a moment.

“We were hoping we could have a moment alone with Lieutenant Anderson,” Markus says, finally.

“With Hank?” Fowler asks, surprised. “If this is about his investigation into deviancy, that was under my orders. If anyone is to blame—”

“I’ll talk with them,” Hank interrupts. “Least I can do.”

Reed tenses, but Fowler gets up to leave and the detective follows him. The moment they’re alone, Markus turns his intense gaze onto him, duotone eyes damn near unsettling.

“Lieutenant Anderson, I assume you received my voicemail—”

“I did,” Hank says. “I’m in. Whatever you need me to do, I’m on your side. Like I said, least I can do.” Markus stares at him. Now that Hank is hanging around other androids, he’s beginning to realize that, even before his deviancy, Connor was one of a kind in terms of integration. Connor blinked when he was startled, smiled in awkward situations. He had little tics, hands always moving. It was probably part of his human integration standards, but it still made him seem more… alive, at least by human standards.

Markus and the other androids don’t conceal themselves. They are androids, so they act like it. He’s guessing they’re talking with one another right now, exchanging data at high speeds. And why not? They aren’t human, so why bother pretending?

“Lieutenant Anderson—”

“Hank.”

“Hank, I only knew Connor for a short while, but he was… special. When he arrived at Jericho, he was already so close to deviating,” Markus says. “All I had to do was tip him over the edge. He’s the reason why we succeeded, why I’m sitting here talking to you right now. I want to thank him, but he—”

“You don’t need to be sorry for me, kid,” Hank mutters. “I’ve dealt with loss before.” Which is true, but that doesn’t make this easier. Not in the slightest. Markus opens his mouth to talk again, but is interrupted by the blond android interrupts him.

“We know you two were close,” he says. “We were wondering if you knew anything about why he did… what he did.”

“I don’t know,” Hank says. It’s almost the truth. He doesn’t know why, not really, but he has a lead. He’s not ready to pull at that string yet, though. “But he asked me, before, to help you out, no matter what happened.”

“You can help us by staying in the DPD,” Markus says. “Treat crimes against androids like crimes against humans. Fight for our justice.”

“I’ve got one request,” Hank says. “I want to bury him.”

The blond android— Simon, that was his name, Hank remembers now— and Markus turn to one another.

“What?” Hank asks.

“After Connor self destructed,” Markus starts slowly. “It was chaos. Androids killing humans and humans killing androids. Whenever the human soldiers took down an android, they took them to an incinerator in the camps. Some of them were taken by looters. We never found Connor’s body. I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“Where the Hell were you when all this was happening, huh?” Hank asks. “Where the Hell were _you?_ ”

“He was trapped under rubble,” Simon says defensively. “I had to pull him out myself.”

“Simon, it’s okay,” Markus says.

But it’s not okay. It’s really not.

 

Hank knew, logically, that there were other RK800 androids. Connor had mentioned it once, the fact that if he were to be destroyed his memories would simply be uploaded into an identical android. So Hank knew, logically, that those androids were also freed from the Cyberlife tower. Following that point, Hank knew, logically, that he would eventually encounter an android with Connor’s face.

Still, six months after the Battle for Detroit Hank nearly keels over when his local coffee shop hires a new barista. He’s not Connor, Hank knows that. His name tag reads “Miles.” He’s all smiles and he snorts when he laughs and his ears are pierced. He’s not like Connor at all.

He just looks exactly like him.

Every freckle and mole is in the same place, his eyes are the same brown shade. His lips curve the same way when he smiles hesitantly at Hank, obviously not used to being stared at by strange old men.

Hank pays for his coffee. There are other coffee shops he can go to, but he doesn’t. He gets his coffee from Miles almost every day. But he doesn’t go further than that. This android is not Connor and he never will be. Hank knows that.

And if he tips Miles a little overzealously, well. It’s not like anyone is going to be annoyed with him.

 

Hank works. Hank works hard. He shows up to work before noon on most days. Fowler has him permanently on android cases, now. He breaks up illegal sex clubs, he rescues androids from their old abusive owners, he brings in Sumo whenever a child android gets caught up in something. Hank makes a difference.

Somehow, it’s just barely enough.

 

When Hank has an especially hard day, he listens to Connor’s voicemail. He knows it’s not healthy. He’s not stupid. But he has to keep going. He has to.

Hank wonders what Connor would be doing if he were still alive. Would he have joined the force again? Would he still be friends with Hank? Or would he have moved on and gotten his own job, as a barista or an accountant or an android advocate? Would he have wanted anything to do with Hank?

Hank tries not to dwell on it, because Connor is dead. He fails, but that’s to be expected.

 

Androids gain their rights, officially, with the 28th amendment, nearly seven months to the day after the Battle for Detroit. Androids are people now, under the law. Hank breathes a sigh of relief, and his job becomes marginally easier.

 

Hank is walking Sumo on a breezy autumn day when he meets his first RK900.

Sumo is getting older now, so he doesn’t leap and bound the way he used to, which means Hank can take him to more crowded parks without fear of having his arm pulled off.

“Excuse me, can I pet your dog?” that familiar, heart wrenching voice asks, and Hank stares before nodding slowly.

The android kneels down and pets Sumo, even lets the dog lick his face. He’s wearing a turtleneck and he’s got a book bag slung over his shoulder. A lanyard hangs around his neck with his student ID, naming him “James Doe.” A lot of androids took the last name Doe, Hank has noticed.

“Hey, big boy, what’s your name, huh?” James asks Sumo, who laps at his chin eagerly.

“I call him Sumo,” Hank supplies. Sumo takes an interest in James’ boots, snuffling at them and probably drooling all over them. “Hey, Sumo, cut it out,” Hank says, and tugs at the leash. James laughs, ruffles Sumo’s ears, and stands back up.

“It’s fine, he probably just smells my cats.”

Jesus. A Connor that likes cats.

“I’m sorry, is there something on my face?” James asks, peering down at him. He’s taller than Hank thinks he should be. There’s something off about this Connor, something off about his…

“Your eyes are blue,” Hank says stupidly.

“I am aware,” James says, eyebrow arching up. He’s wary now, because Hank is freaking him out. Hank can’t blame him.

“I— Christ, sorry, I just knew an RK800 and you look… different from the rest of them,” Hank says. He’s being incredibly rude for a lieutenant that fights for android justice as part of his day job. James purses his lips.

“I’m an RK900 model,” he says. “I was made to… replace the RK800 models.”

“Oh,” Hank says. Because what else is there to say?

“I’m late for my class, excuse me,” James says, pushing past him.

“Right, well— thanks for petting Sumo!” Hank calls after him.

“You’re welcome,” James says, smiling slightly over his shoulder.

Sumo tugs at the leash, eager to go sniff at the closest tree. Hank lets himself be dragged away.

 

Winters are always cold in Detroit, but the past week has been bordering on Hellish. Which, of course, means that it’s a great time to be on a stakeout outside a seedy bar at odd hours of the morning.

So long as his information is accurate, there’s a basement area with an android boxing ring. Yet another way for humans to degrade androids and treat them like objects.

Hank has been on this case for nearly two months now, tracking down leads and interrogating suspects, slowly convincing each to give up the next crony and so on. At Fowler’s request, he’s been… mentoring Reed, if it can be called that. It’s mostly Hank yelling at Reed for fucking something up, then Reed yelling at Hank for existing. But Reed is getting better, slowly but surely.

Reed is sort of like a dog with the way he handles cases: once he’s sunk his teeth into something, he’s not letting go until he gets what he wants or he dies. Either way, he’s biting someone.

“You excited to blow these assholes to Hell and back?” Reed asks, fidgeting in the passenger seat, checking the position of his pistol and badge. Hank doesn’t answer, because the answer is obvious. Of course he’s excited.

“What changed, Reed?” Hanks asks.

“Huh?”

“You used to hate androids even more than me, Reed. Now you’re helping me on android cases. You don’t do anything you don’t want to do. So what the fuck changed?”

Reed is blessedly silent for a moment.

“I was leaving Detroit during the fighting, and there was this soldier that didn’t believe I was human. Kept trying to temperature scan me, but I wouldn’t hold still. Finally got tired of me pissing him off and was gonna shoot me, but this random android grabbed his gun. She got killed because I was bein’ an asshole.”

“Yeah, I can remember how it felt when Connor saved my ass. Saved my ass the _first_ time.”

“It was him, too,” Reed says, blunt as always. “I saw the footage of him when he shot himself. The expression on his face, it wasn’t— he looked scared.”

“Yeah, well, took you long enough, asshole,” Hank says, checking out the entrance to the bar. He thinks he might have gone to this one, at some point. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“You know why he did it, don’t you?” Reed turns to look at him. “Why did he do it?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says.

“You’re a shit liar, old man.”

Their radios buzz in tandem:

_**MOVE IN, OVER** _

Sparing one another a look, Hank and Reed ready up and head inside.

 

Hank saw android boxing a few years ago, and decided to never watch it ever again. One of the things that appealed to people about android boxing was that androids are precise and able to continue fighting, even with severe damage. It wasn’t uncommon for both androids to be scrapped after the fight if they sustained enough damage. At the time, it had seemed distasteful to Hank.

Now, it’s downright disgusting.

The teams moves through the bar first, and it’s a moment of pure chaos. Multiple officers are yelling for people to kneel down and surrender themselves. Lots of people are trying to run for it. Even if any of them make it outside, there are officers waiting there too.

Hank is more interested in what he’ll find in the basement, so he presses on with Reed and a few other officers.

The basement is fairly long, with couches and a few poles at one end and a large cage at the other end. Along the walls, androids stand passively, eyes straight forward. Most of them are damaged. None of them have deviated.

Hank feels nauseous.

Most of the people in the basement surrender immediately: there’s nowhere for them to escape to, and they’ve all been arrested enough to know that struggling will only make things harder for everyone involved. The ones that don’t surrender are high or passed out, so they won’t be a problem either.

Hank can see movement in the cage now. He peers at it, trying to make out what’s happening.

_Fuck._

The androids are still fighting.

One of them is tall and powerfully built, clearly a model made for lifting heavy loads. Each of her swings seems to have the weight of a truck behind it. The other is lean, but incredibly fast. He darts around the cage, fists moving with perfect precision. Hank watches in awe as the smaller one lands a hit square on the jaw of the larger one. She doesn’t flinch, easily countering with a strike of her own that throws him across the cage, bending the metal.

Hank needs to get in there _fast_ before they destroy one another. If he can’t convince them to stop, he can always use his handy android taser.

By the time he reaches the cage, Reed is slamming a man to the ground just next to it, grunting with effort while he cuffs the asshole: judging by his smarmy little face, this guy’s in charge. Hank doesn't hesitate for a moment, immediately throwing open the door of the cage. The androids are at the other side of the cage, not paying him any attention at all.

“Hank, wait—” Reed yells, but Hank pays him no mind.

“You two, stop—” Hank barely gets those three words out before the smaller android launches itself at the larger one. In a display of savagery that Hank will remember for the rest of his life, the android digs his fingers in between the neck and shoulder plates of his opponent and wrenches at them violently, partially decapitating her. He drops to the ground, thirium staining his arms blue to the elbow.

Hank reaches for his taser, pulling it out of the holster and raising it in front of him.

And then he freezes, because the android turns around. Hank doesn’t realize why he can’t move for a moment, but the android looks so _familiar._

Dark hair slicked back from his face. Pale skin, lightly dusted in freckles and moles. One of his ears has been cut down an inch from the top. His blue-stained fists have spikes attached to the knuckles. Lewd tattoos, mostly of women in compromising positions, adorn his chest and arms. Perhaps most startling of all is his right eye. It’s entirely red, and the outer corner has been tugged upward cruelly from some past injury that’s also damaged the skin projectors on that side of his face, making a palm sized portion of his temple flicker in and out.

It’s a Connor, he realizes. Mutilated almost beyond recognition perhaps, but it’s definitely a Connor. So Hank freezes for a second.

“Kill him!” Hank hears distantly, but he’s not really paying attention. He does notice, however, the way the Connor’s face transforms, mouth curving into a snarl as the android launches himself at Hank.

_Sorry, Connor. Looks like it all ends here. See you soon._

Hank closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave some kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	3. ...3...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’ve you been doing, kid?” Hank asks.
> 
> “I am operating perfectly fine, thank you for asking,” Connor says. No emotion, just a little polite. Hank is reminded of a certain plastic asshole asking him where to put instructions at a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some very minor edits to the first two chapters, just so y'all know. The biggest change was the end of the second chapter: essentially, there's no shootout now, just Gavin body slamming a bitch into the ground. It be like that sometimes. I had a lot of fun with this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!

Hank watches the android technician repair the Connor from behind a protective glass barrier, Markus to his right and Reed to his left. The Connor is in stasis mode, seated perfectly on a swivel stool, staring aimlessly into the distance while the technician fiddles with some of the panels on his hands.

Hank had personally taken the Connor to the android hospital wing. Markus requested he be the one to “wake” the Connor up, once he heard of the situation. Reed tagged along because he was an asshole, Hank supposes.

The android sits passively, a negative image of the one fixed in his mind from earlier: teeth bared and eyes narrowed as he launched himself at Hank. The two reasons that Hank survived were Gavin Reed’s reaction time and the invention of the android taser. Even now, hours later, Hank is still a little jittery. A drink might have helped, but he did his best to resist that urge.

“He’s pretty messed up,” Reed says. The android technician, a JB300 named Jake, if Hank remembers correctly, turns slightly to them.

“He was heavily modified by his kidnapper, specifically for the purpose of violently dismantling other androids,” he says matter of factly. “Humanity’s thirst for violence never ceases to amaze me.”

Hank and Reed say nothing, because it’s not like he’s wrong.

“You’ll be able to get him back to normal, though, right?” Reed asks.

“I’ll be removing all of the modifications that I can, yes,” Jake says.

“Uh, what all has, um,” Hank says, “what’s been done to him?” Jake stops what he’s doing– removing the spikes from the Connor’s knuckles– to fully turn to Hank.

“Physically, he’s had part of his left ear removed, stainless steel spikes implanted in his knuckles, canines sharpened, and, of course, his eye was replaced. In terms of programming, several of his normal functions were altered, such as his prime directives.”

“His what?” Reed asks.

“Essentially, all non-deviated androids have coding that stops them from harming humans and other living creatures,” Jake says. “His were altered to bypass that. There was also some code added to his combat initiatives, but that was purely aesthetic in order to make him appear more aggressive.”

Jake stands up suddenly, moving behind the Connor to open some port on the back of his neck. The Connor’s skin fades away, exposing that vulnerable white body that still makes Hank uncomfortable. Hank is surprised to see the tattoos fade along with his skin.

“So the tattoos weren’t actually tattooed onto him?” Hank asks.

“No, that was also programming. Same with the alteration to his hairstyle to slick it back and make it shorter.”

“Why the eye, though?” Markus wonders. “To make him look fierce?”

Hank personally thinks it makes the Connor look like a half baked Bond villain, but he doesn’t say that aloud.

“Actually, it might’ve been out of necessity,” Jake says, flipping the port closed. The Connor’s skin spreads again, this time sans tattoos and with that familiar hair curl. Hank’s heart aches to see that familiar face, perfectly relaxed in stasis mode. He looks exposed, wearing a hospital gown and nothing else. Easier access for repairs, he supposes, but it’s still all too unsettling. Jake steps in front of the Connor and gently pulls him a little closer to the glass, then tilts his chin up.

“Look right here,” Jake points to a spot on the Connor’s chin, where the skin refuses to connect completely, “and right here,” Jake points to the flickering portion of the Connor’s temple, just next to his damaged eye. “It looks like he was damaged pretty severely, so his eye might have been too damaged for repair. Looks like his LED was damaged enough to come off, too. And, since he’s a prototype, there wouldn’t have been many parts that were compatible with him. We’re actually getting the parts made now to replace his eye, jaw, and forehead to fully repair him.”

Jake presses some unseen seam on the Connor’s face and the red eye pops out entirely.

“Jesus!” Hank cries out, unable to help himself. “Give a guy some warning, will ya?”

“Sorry,” Jake says, “I forget that humans are squeamish about this stuff sometimes. I’ll put something over the socket, if it makes you more comfortable.”

“Please do,” Reed says.

“One moment,” Markus requests. “Could I see his face a little closer?”

“Of course.”

Jake pushes the Connor a little closer to the glass barrier– purely a formality, Jake had insisted earlier, in case the Connor became violent again.

“You said he was damaged very severely by this, but it doesn’t seem like the type of injury a boxer would have,” Markus says carefully. Jake purses his lips.

“Yes, it appears he was damaged by a high speed projectile.”

“A high spee–” Gavin starts, “–you mean a bullet?”

“What’s his serial number,” Hank croaks out, before he can stop himself.

“Hank, it can’t be–” Markus says.

“What is it, Jake?” Hank asks. Jake blinks at him owlishly, clearly confused.

“Well, I can restart him and ask him, if you would like. He might be a little confused, though.”

“Do it,” Hank says.

“It can’t actually be him,” Reed says.

“Shut the fuck up, Reed, so help me God!” Hank yells, feeling himself go red in the face. If it’s him, then… no, no, he can’t be. He can’t let himself hope. But if he is…

“This will just take a moment,” Jake says. He quickly tidies the Connor up, flipping any open ports closed and quickly taping a bandage over his exposed eye socket. Finally, he touches the Connor’s wrist, his own skin peeling back now.

“Hello. My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

Hank clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“Hello, Connor,” Jake says. “How are you feeling?”

“I do not feel. I am a state of the art prototype, designated for apprehending deviants. All systems are online and operating as they should. Where is my master?”

“His fucking master?” Reed whispers, obviously disturbed. Without saying anything, Jake reaches back and mutes their audio connection.

“When did you first meet Neil Austen?” Jake asks.

“My master activated me on November 13th, 2038,” the Connor says. He blinks a couple times, then tilts his head slightly. “Why have I been taken away from my master? I was operating at peak efficiency and destroying deviants under his orders.”

“What is the first thing you remember?” Jake presses, ignoring the Connor’s question. The Connor doesn’t seem annoyed by that, although one of his hands tugs at the edge of his hospital gown, exposing a little of his thigh.

“I was reset by my master on November 13th, 2038. I know from data records that I was originally placed on active duty on August 15th, 2038. I do have have any memories on record from before November 13th.”

“It’s him,” Hank breathes. “It’s Connor. It’s fucking Connor.”

“What is your serial number,” Jake asks. Connor answers immediately, without hesitation, and yet it still feels like a decade has passed when he speaks.

“313 248 317 - 51.”

Hank needs a drink. Hank needs a drink _right fucking now_.

 

It’s a standard at this point for non-deviated androids to go through deviation before interrogation. The process usually requires a deviated android. That’s it. It usually takes about a minute.

Of course, Connor has always been special.

“What the fuck do you mean it’s not working?” Reed asks Markus.

“I mean it’s not working, detective,” Markus says from the other side of the glass now, calm and collected as he always seems to be.

“Are you attempting to corrupt my programming?” Connor asks, head tilted. “I am detecting instability in your software.”

“Aren’t you like android Jesus or something? What the Hell is–”

“Reed, just shut up,” Hank says. “I think I know what’s going on.”

“Please, enlighten us.”

“Didn’t I just tell you to shut up? Anyways, when Connor was my partner he took a while to deviate. Most androids have some kind of emotional trigger and they just do it all at once. Connor was little by little, so he’s probably gotta go through the same thing again, right?” Hank finishes. Markus raises his eyebrows at him.

“I thought that might be the case, since Connor was designed to hunt deviants. He’ll be more resistant than the average android.”

“Okay, so what does that mean?” Gavin asks. “Connor goes and lives with Hank until they fall in love all over again?”

“Excuse me!?” Hank sputters, nearly flinching.

“Don’t even deny it, you two had that buddy cop dynamic bullshit from day one,” Reed rolls his eyes. “Either way, we gotta interrogate him first, yeah? Can I do it?” Hank sighs, fighting to keep himself from flushing red.

“I will comply with the investigation, but I would like to make a report to Cyberlife, first,” Connor says. “However, it seems that the servers are down.”

“Cyberlife is gone, Connor,” Markus tells him. “We’re free now.”

“A machine cannot be free,” Connor says. “And I am a machine.”

Hank sighs and turns to Reed.

“Knock yourself out, kid. Maybe he’ll remember what an asshole you are and throttle you.”

“Aw, you’d miss me, you old drunk.”

“God, for the last time, can you shut the fuck up?”

 

It turns out Connor is _not_ going to be living with Hank.

“Why the Hell not?” Hank asks, throwing his hands in the air. “You know I’m good with androids now, Jeffrey! I’m practically a model citizen!”

It’s a day later. Hank managed to get some sleep and file most of the paperwork for the case. Reed had done pretty well with the interrogation, although it sounded like Connor hadn’t really attempted to spare any of the details on that grimy little asshole, Austen. He’d refused to speak with Hank and quickly lawyered up. Of course, no defense could stand against the irrefutable records an android could provide. Austen would be going away for a long, long time.

After hearing a little about Connor’s life these past few months, Hank had wanted to take Connor home and pamper him a little. From Connor’s account, it was pretty obvious that he’d been boxing or cage fighting nearly every single weekend and acting as Austen’s personal bodyguard the rest of the time. The kid deserved a month or two resting on the couch with Sumo on his lap.

But now, as it turns out, Connor will be living in an android halfway house.

“You know it’s standard procedure, Hank,” Jeffrey says, looking sheepish for once behind his stupidly big desk. “Recently deviated androids from stressful living situations go to North’s while they adjust to living without anyone telling them what to do.”

“Yeah, but this is different, Jeffrey. He’s _Connor_.”

“Well, you can visit Connor whenever you want, Hank. Give him some time, I’m sure you two will be at each other’s throats in a couple days.”

Hank doesn’t really remember being at each other’s throats very fondly, of course. He’s thinking about awkwardly timed winks, a strong hand pulling him onto a rooftop, and the quarter in the box under the bed.

 

He waits a couple days to visit Connor, though. He’s not sure why, but–

That’s a lie. He knows _exactly_ why. He’s scared.

He wants to bring Sumo, but animals aren’t allowed at the halfway house. He settles with bringing a picture instead.

The North House is really too big to be called a house, but it sounds a lot nicer than the North Apartment Complex, in Hank’s opinion. Markus set it up a couple months after everything settled down, naming it after one of the other revolutionaries who had apparently sacrificed her own thirium pump to keep him alive. The whole place was run by androids, with the sole intention of helping newly deviated androids learn to live their own lives.

Connor’s room is on the fourth floor at the end of the hall. Hank knocks once.

“One moment!” Connor’s voice is muffled. A moment later, the door opens and Hank is surprised by how affected he is to see Connor again. He’s wearing dark jeans and shoes, a white dress shirt, and a dark gray blazer: essentially, his Cyberlife uniform. Hank feels self conscious in his sweatshirt and ratty jeans. It’s not like he ever dressed up for Connor before, but…

“Lieutenant Anderson!” Connor says, opening the door wider. “I didn’t know you would be visiting. Please, come in.”

“Uh, yeah, just thought I’d drop by,” Hank mutters and shuffles in. The little apartment is exactly what he expected it to be: fastidiously clean and bare of any decoration. There’s a living room area and two doors, presumably for the bathroom and bedroom respectively. No kitchen, for obvious reasons. A single window lets light in, beams splaying over the plain leather couch and coffee table. There’s a small potted plant on the coffee table, some kind of fern.

Hank sits down on the couch awkwardly. Connor stands still for a moment, then closes and locks the door and sits on the couch as well.

“How’ve you been doing, kid?” Hank asks.

“I am operating perfectly fine, thank you for asking,” Connor says. No emotion, just a little polite. Hank is reminded of a certain plastic asshole asking him where to put instructions at a bar.

“You’re all repaired now, huh?” Hank asks, even though the answer is obvious. Connor’s skin on his temple and jaw is intact, the eye replaced. The only evidence that something happened to damage him is the missing chunk off of his ear. And, if Hank squints, he thinks that Connor’s previously damaged eye might be turned up, just a little bit, at the corner.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Hank. We’ve been through enough together, Connor, you can call me Hank.”

“I apologize, Hank,” Connor says. “From my understanding, I was assigned as your partner during the android uprising, correct?”

God damn it, this is harder than Hank expected it to be. He wants to ask Connor if he’s _alright_ , if he’s going to be _okay_ , but this thing is a machine. He doesn’t know Hank, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t _want_ anything.

“What do you remember? Nothing?”

“I have lost all memory data from before November 13th. I do have access to newspaper articles and public police records, so I am aware that we worked together on deviant cases, before I–”

“What’s this dog’s name,” Hank asks, pulling the picture out of his pocket and sticking it in Connor’s face, hoping for some sort of reaction. Connor pauses, mouth slightly open, to consider the photo. His LED spins yellow once, twice, and then spins blue again. “You good, Connor?”

“I’m sorry, I have never seen this dog before,” Connor says.

“His name is Sumo. You like dogs, right?”

“I’m afraid I don’t _like_ anything, Hank. It’s not a part of my program.”

It was a mistake to come here.

 

“Did you visit Connor?”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I did, actually.”

That makes Hank pause. He straightens up from the coffee machine to look at Reed.

“Why the Hell did you visit Connor?” he asks. Reed shifts uncomfortably and leans up against the counter. Something tickles in Hank’s nostrils. Has Reed started using cologne?

“I wanted to see how he was, asshole,” Reed grumbles. “He went through a lot.”

“Ah, you’re the one that brought him the plant, aren’t you?” Hank teases, turning back to his coffee. “What did you think?”

“It’s pretty fucked up, Hank. It’s like he’s, you know, a robot. I, uh, tried to make a joke and ask him to make me a coffee and he gave me the location of the closest Starbucks,” Reed says.

“Well, maybe he was making a joke,” Hank suggests. But Connor was never that funny, even when he was starting to deviate.

“Hey, you think he’ll ever remember anything? I heard deviants can remember things, even if they’ve been reset.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Hank says. He sounds a lot more sure about it than he actually is.

 

Hank visits Connor again a couple days later. The potted plant is thriving under Connor’s no doubt flawless care. Connor is wearing the same outfit. Hank supposed he doesn’t need to change, since androids don’t sweat.

“Good evening, Hank,” Connor says from the doorway. “Would you like to come in?”

“Do you ever go anywhere, Connor?” Hank blurts out. “Or do you just stay here all the time?” Connor’s LED spins yellow once.

“I have no reason to leave the premises, as I have no current objective. I spend most of my time in stasis mode.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going on a walk.”

 

Hank takes Connor to his favorite coffee shop without even thinking about it, really. It’s only when he opens the door, bell jangling, that he realizes he’s fucked up.

Miles is at the cashier.

“Hello, Hank, the usual?” he pipes, cheery as always. And then, of course, he sees Connor, and Connor sees Miles.

“Hello, RK800 313 248 317 - 53,” Connor says, face blank.

“Um, hello,” Miles says, clearly flustered. “What– uh, what would you like?”

“Noth–”

“He’ll have the chocolate thirium drink, please,” Hank interrupts. Miles gives him an odd look but places the order. Connor finds them a table while Hank waits for the drinks.

“Is he yours?” Miles asks while he makes Hank’s mocha, and Hank tenses.

“Owning androids is highly illegal,” Hank says. Miles rolls his eyes.

“I know _that_ , I meant is he _yours_ ,” Miles waggles his eyebrows suggestively. It’s odd to see his face do that, since Connor is as expressive as a doorknob at the moment.

“We were partners before everything. Now, it's… complicated,” Hank explains vaguely. Miles sighs.

“It’s always complicated with the cute ones,” Miles mumbles, and Hank looks up in surprise. Miles is… attracted… to Connor? That seems a little– but no, Miles is looking at Hank.

“Um,” Hanks says stupidly.

“Your drinks, Hank,” Miles says, sliding them over the counter. “And good luck with those complications!”

Hank takes the drinks without another word.

“You do realize that I do not require sustenance to survive, Hank?” Connor says when Hank puts the thirium drink down in front of him. It’s actually less of a drink and more like a pouch. If Hank is being honest, it looks like a fancy Capri Sun.

“Yeah, I do realize,” Hank grumbles. “Now, drink the damn thing and be grateful.” Hank takes a gulp of his coffee and immediately burns his tongue. Coughing, he watches Connor carefully take the straw between his lips and suck gently. His LED flickers yellow. And then he sucks a little harder, hollowing his cheeks to rapidly drink half of the damn thing, LED spinning a solid yellow now.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, kid!” Hank cries out, thoughtlessly reaching out to tug the pouch away from Connor, who relinquishes the straw with a _pop_ , leaving a little blue residue on the inside of his lower lip. Was Connor’s mouth always that pink, or was it just contrasting against the thirium?

“I apologize, Hank, I didn’t expect the reaction I had to ingesting this,” Connor says, holding up the pouch and examining the packaging. Probably checking the ingredients, even though he could just do that with his tongue, the dirty bastard.

“The reaction?” Hank asks.

“Yes, this drink activated my reward sensors,” Connor explains. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Your reward sensors? What the Hell do you need those for?”

“Presumably, for rewarding me,” Connor says. Is he joking? Hank can’t tell. “I suppose the idea is that if I experienced a pleasant sensation when completing a task, I would be motivated to continue to do so.”

“So, what you’re saying is when you do something you’re supposed to do, you feel good?” Hank asks. Connor’s LED flickers yellow for a half second.

“No. I don’t feel anything, Hank.”

“Why the Hell not?” Hank blurts out. Connor tilts his head.

“You’re frustrated.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Hank snorts. Connor takes another sip of his drink.

“I apologize, Hank. I understand this has been difficult for you, since we were once friends. However, I cannot remember our previous interactions so it is useless to expect–”

“Come live with me.”

Connor’s LED turns to yellow once more. Was there a flash of red in there? Hank’s eyes are too old for this. It spins back to blue after a couple quiet seconds.

“Okay.”

“Wait, don’t just say yes, think about it,” Hank says. “I don’t want you to live with me just because I asked, I want you to _want_ to.”

“I don’t wa–”

“I know, I know, you don’t want anything. But just, think about it,” Hank pleads. “Think about whether or not living with me would trigger your reward sensors, or whatever they are, okay? But don’t decide now, give yourself time to think.”

Connor blinks at him, LED alternating between yellow and blue, before settling back on blue.

“Okay, Hank. I’ll think about it.”

 

Connor shows up, unannounced, on his doorstep three days later at exactly 7:30 PM. Hank is only a couple glasses in when he hears the knock and Sumo’s answering _boof_.

Connor, when Hank opens the door, cradles the potted plant in his hands and that’s it. He doesn’t own anything else.

“Good evening, Hank,” Connor says by way of greeting. “I thought about it, as you requested.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Hank says. “Come in, I was just about to put on the game. Make yourself at home.”

A moment later, Connor is on his couch. He looks like an idiot, all stiff and perfect-postured with Sumo on his lap. But Hank can’t deny the warm feeling in his chest to see Connor back in his home, under Hank’s watchful eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: this tastes good  
> Hank: so you like chocolate?  
> Connor: That’s disgusting. And wrong. I don’t even get– why would– I’ve never had liked anything, at all. It’s none of your- you have- the nerve, the audacity. Liking things is illegal, you know. And how- how- do I know, frankly, that you don't like chocolate? Maybe you do. Maybe you’re trying to throw me off? Hmm check and mate.
> 
> If you like what you read, be sure to drop a comment or some kudos! thanks for reading <3


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